


the hour when we are trembling

by ruinsrebuilt



Series: the hollow men [2]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Character Death, M/M, Rare Pair, Soft Ending, lots of angst I'm so sorry, the last patrol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 18:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruinsrebuilt/pseuds/ruinsrebuilt
Summary: When they can't stand on their own, they hold each other up.





	the hour when we are trembling

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to part two of my Grant/Speirs trilogy, I hope you enjoy <3 
> 
> special thank you to my friend Maddie (tumblr: @snowmedics) for betaing last minute! 
> 
>  
> 
> Is it like this  
> In death's other kingdom  
> Waking alone  
> At the hour when we are  
> Trembling with tenderness  
> Lips that would kiss  
> Form prayers to broken stone.
> 
> \- from The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

There was to be a patrol. The weight of this knowledge hung around Grant like a millstone, and he could feel the bitter rage rippling from his men. Three from 2nd Platoon had already been slated to go, and the rest of them were left to hold their breath, waiting to see who else would be sentenced to suicide. 

They were watching the billowing steam from the showers in weary anticipation when the word came, strapped to the back of Malarkey. Grant didn’t think it was possible for Malarkey to be beaten down further than he’d already been, but his exhaustion was magnified tenfold in his sagging shoulders as he gave them the news. What was left of 2nd Platoon would complete the roster, and Malarkey was to lead. 

Grant knew there was nothing to be done, of course. Ron and Winters would have fought tooth and nail trying to keep their sparse 2nd Platoon from being plucked, but there was only so much they could say without being court-martialed, and they all knew losing them would be like digging a mass grave for the entirety of Easy. 

Still, Grant would be damned to an eternity in this hell-hole before he let careless orders from on-high destroy what was left of his friend. He had seen Malarkey gutted, watched in real-time as Bastogne had ripped out his soul, raked out the light, and stuffed it back in again, merely an echo in an empty chest. 

Grant wasn’t one for religion, but a prayer poured out of him anyway. If he could do one good thing in this world, let it be this. 

 

+

 

He found Ron in what had been commandeered as his quarters, a small apartment above a long-abandoned watchmaker’s shop. His visits to see Ron had become a near-nightly ritual, and he had come to love the feeling of stepping out of the dirt and death and into the well-worn haven. The place had a certain air about it, outside of time and space, as if when you stepped inside everything beyond vanished or stood frozen, or both. Which was ironic, considering it made the very instruments which marked the passage of time. 

Regardless, the feeling that filled him when he entered the building was quickly becoming his most treasured, although he knew this had less to do with the building and more to do with who waited inside. 

Whatever was between them had been left unspoken, but ever since the night that Grant and Ron had held and drawn strength from each other, they had been holding each other up. They were lifelines tied to one another. The company depended on them, and they depended on each other, and somehow this circular reasoning kept them alive. 

Except now Ron was dying. Grant saw it as soon as he stepped in the bedroom. He could see it in the way he stood at the window, staring out at the grey and mucky river, his bed untouched, his fists clenched at his sides. Dread coated the room, thicker than years of dust. 

He knew Ron was picturing what might happen that night, sending their battered men out once again, their souls dragging behind them like broken kites. Not knowing if there’d be any of them left come morning. 

Grant walked across the room to stand beside him, taking up the space on the other side of the window. He silently gazed out upon the river that could be their end. 

It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, if it were just him. If the mission could be completed by one man, he would gladly volunteer, because his men would be safe. For one more night at least. 

It was Ron who broke the silence. 

“I tried.” 

Grant was gentle. “I know.” 

“I did everything I could…” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been yelling, and he rubbed his temples roughly. His words were defeated. “Sink knows 2nd is up for rotation, and orders are orders. Christ. The bastard can’t see what the men need, not even when they’re shouting it in his face.” 

So he had been yelling. The thought of Ron on a vicious tirade on behalf of his men sent a wave of pride through Grant. 

“The men know you did all you could. They trust you.” 

Ron let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. And I’m sending them anyway.” 

For the first time since Grant had entered the room, Ron looked at him.

“I’m sending you anyway.”

There it was. The ever-present concern that stained both of them like the blood on Doc Roe’s hands. Grant knew how he would feel if Ron were going and he was the one who had to stay behind — could practically feel his heart clench in panic at the thought — but he also knew that he wasn’t sorry it was him instead of Ron, or any of the other men for that matter. 

“Better me than someone else.” 

The pain in Ron’s eyes told Grant he was far from comforted. Not when it was Grant. Not when it was a shaky patrol on a moonlit night of terror. He looked as though he were going to say something but Grant didn’t think he could hear it without losing his fragile, still-budding resolve, so he spoke first. 

“We can’t let Malarkey go.” 

Ron folded his arms and sighed, lowering his head until his chin hit his chest. “I know. But who else is there?” 

“Me.” Grant said it like it was obvious, because it should have been. 

Ron’s eyes went hard as his head shot up, but he didn’t look at Grant. “No.” 

Grant watched the side of his face. “You’re not going to even consider it?” 

“I have considered it, and I’m saying no.” 

“Why?” Grant pressed. “I’m perfectly capable, and after Malarkey, I have the most experience, so it makes sense. Why won’t you—”

“Enough, Chuck. I said no. That’s final.” 

The crack of desperation in Ron’s voice tugged at Grant’s insides and he cautiously reached out to touch his shoulder. 

“Ron?” 

Ron refused to look at him. Instead he glared out across the river, as if his stare alone could burn the German outpost to the ground. 

“Ron, talk to me.” 

After a moment that stretched somewhere between long and forever, he finally dragged his eyes back to Grant’s face. 

His gaze was intense, even hot. “I know you. If you were to lead this and something happened, you’d carry it with you for the rest of your life. It would crush you, and you would let it. I won’t let that happen.” 

Grant knew Ron was right. And he knew he would feel the same were he in Ron’s place. It was a special kind of hell, reserved for a lucky few, to watch powerless as the one you loved was torn up from the inside, slowly, over a lifetime. 

So he didn’t argue, but simply said, “Then who should we send?” 

Ron blinked at him as relief, and something like gratitude, flooded his eyes. He surged forward, wrapping his arms around Grant, one hand clasping the nape of his neck, his thumb rubbing swirls into the edge of his hairline. It was a habit Ron had developed over the course of their relationship, something he did without realizing it and something Grant was acutely aware of. He had grown to crave the simple touch that never failed to ease the tension in his shoulders, even now with the uncertainty of the patrol looming over them like a shroud. 

They both knew the chances of Grant coming back were slim at best, and his agreeing not to lead the debacle only raised his chances by a minuscule amount, but it was something at least. 

Ron pressed a kiss to Grant’s cheek, resting their foreheads together. “Thank you.” 

Grant just tightened his grip on him. He liked to think they would have stayed that way for ages, locked around each other, frozen in time, had the moment not been shattered by a knock at the door, a replacement, sent by Sink to drag their captain away for more devastating orders.

Ron sighed and said loud enough for the replacement to hear, “Tell the colonel I’m on my way.” 

He pressed his forehead against Grant’s once more and lowered his voice to a pleasant rumble. “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to Winters and see what we can do about Malarkey.” 

Grant nodded, relieved. His prayer was as good answered; a promise from Ron was a promise written in stone. 

“I won’t see you alone again before you leave.” He tightened his grip on Grant’s nape. “Be careful. Come back to me.” 

“I will.” It wasn’t a promise in stone, but it was close as he could come. 

 

+

 

That night, Ron’s world was one of tension and dread. 

Grant’s was resolve turned to chaos. 

 

+

 

The screams died slowly at first, then all at once. The basement was left in silence. 

Grant’s hands were shaking and he couldn’t tell where he left off and Skinny began — the boy was wrapped around him like a vice, his best friend dead mere feet away. Grant was only vaguely aware of the scratchiness of the blanket wrapped around Skinny as he rubbed his back, was hyper aware of the moment it was ripped from them and laid over Eugene Jackson. 

The officers came as soon as they could, preparing themselves to see terrible things in the eyes of their men. What they found was a basement of empty uniforms. 

Grant couldn’t watch as Winters’ eyes landed on the stretcher; he forced himself to block out Lipton’s pained whimper, and the way Nixon’s face went slack. But when Ron’s presence filled the room everything spun into focus. Grant held his breath as Ron stepped further into the room, eyes falling to the blanketed form of their fallen boy. Grant had seen terror, naked and hideous, many times over. But he had never seen terror as raw as the kind he saw in Ron’s eyes as he realized what the covered form might mean. His eyes shot up, jerking from face to broken face.

Grant moved enough to peek around Alley, trying to touch Ron with his gaze, and suddenly Ron’s watery eyes were locked with his own red and dry ones. 

There was a sort of broken relief, and then Ron was swallowed by the company, lost in grieving for their smallest boy. 

 

\+ 

 

It was hours later when Ron stumbled into his quarters, finding Grant already collapsed on the bed. His fresh uniform was stained with blood, and his boots had been kicked carelessly to the side. Even in the blissful oblivion of sleep his exhaustion was permanently etched in the crease on his brow. 

Ron smiled the small, intimate smile he reserved only for himself, and lately for Grant, shedding his gear and crawling onto the warm mattress. And there, with the man he loved again safely beside him, Ron finally allowed himself to rest. 

There the trembling could not reach them.

~~~~~~~


End file.
